


Collisions

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Meetings, M/M, Modern Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Walk Of Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 14:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6614437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the pre-dawn light, it can be hard to see clearly.  Or, how Anders and Fenris collided once, and then met again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collisions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calligraphypenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calligraphypenn/gifts).



> This prompt was given to me from a list of gorgeous ['Meet Ugly'](http://littlexabyss.tumblr.com/post/143121635115/tokiosunset-people-should-do-more-meet-ugly) prompts... thank you calligraphypenn, I'm rather proud of this one, and I hope you like it!

Carefully, he watches his shoes.  He sees them walk, almost of their own accord, quickly, eating the cracked Kirkwall pavement with every step.  One step.  Another.  Not long to go and he’ll be home, home free, and he can put this all behind him.  Again.

 

Oh, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.  But then, it always did with Kristoff.  Passionate, articulate, he had cause, ambition, and his very presence swept Anders along, up, into a whirlwind.  He felt like there was nothing they couldn’t accomplish, if they were together.   _ But he doesn’t feel the same _ , he reminds himself, and a strange smile ghosts over his lips.  The way that Kristoff wanted him was like wildfire - all consuming while it raged, but gone too soon, leaving only destruction in its wake.   _ Don’t be so dramatic _ , he chides himself, feeling the pinpricks of tears behind his eyes, and rubs his knuckles into them as he walks down the chilly early morning street.   _ You’re just tired _ , he thinks, and sighs, putting his hands back into the pockets of his threadbare coat, feeling the way the chill creeps in around the seams, putting his finger into the burgeoning hole in the lining without thinking.  Two shifts at the clinic, back-to-back to fill the gaps in the roster brought about by the ‘flu season; its the time that they can least afford absences, and yet nurses are people as well; they get sick, and so do their families.  So he had filled in, as he had so many times before.

 

And then there was the meeting after that, and he’d been there.  One thing had led to another; the speech that Kristoff had made had been so impassioned, so…  _ right _ , so beautiful that it left Anders gasping.  He, Kristoff, had said that the time for petitions, for letter writing and silent campaigning was over; it was time for action, time to call out the politicians and bureaucrats for the sycophants and abusers that they so clearly were.  To march in the streets, to call their brothers and sisters to join them.  And Anders wanted all of that, wanted all of it if that’s what Kristoff said was necessary.  They had ended up in conversation for so long afterward, and when Kristoff had invited him back, ostensibly so that the AA group could get into the room, Anders had only hesitated for a moment.  He knew what it all meant - hurried kisses, sweat and slick, heated moment, powerful connection… then nothing.  Blank walls, blank eyes afterward.  Sweet and bitter, and he wanted it anyway.  He sighs, and keeps putting one foot ahead of the other.

 

_ Slam! _

 

Anders has a moment where he sees a figure ahead of him, all in black, and then he is on his arse on the pavement, grazed palms smarting.  His first instinct is to apologise, though he has clearly come out the worse of the encounter, as the other person is still standing, albeit in a crouched fashion.  The figure mumbles, “Look where you’re going,” as it straightens, and then pauses, looking at Anders.  

 

He glares, and blows on his palms, squinting at them in the six AM light.  No blood, but Maker, they sting.  “I could say the same for you.  Still drunk from last night?”

“So what if I was?”  A pause, and then, more quietly, “Are you alright?”

Anders sighs.  “I’ll live, I suppose.”  He pauses, looks up at the face of the person, then asks, “Are you?”

 

“Clearly,” the figure says, then holds out a hand.  Anders hesitates, only for half a beat, but it’s obviously noted, as the figure withdraws its hand slightly.  Quickly, Anders reaches up, out for the hand; grasps it and is hauled up, onto his feet.  “Thanks,” Anders murmurs, withdrawing his hand reluctantly from the elfs - he can see the pointed ears, the tips of which are poking through hair which glows silvery in the light of the early day.  His hand is warm, the grip firm.  There is something… reassuring about it. The elf bites his bottom lip and shrugs, then says, “Better go.”

 

Anders nods.  He opens his mouth, wanting to say more, to thank the elf again - absurd, really, but… some part of him wants to detain him, to ask what he might be doing out on a Sunday morning so early. He opens his mouth, fully intending to, but the elf is shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his black wool coat, shoulders hunched, and walking away.  Anders watches him for a second, then shakes his head.  It’s only one step.  Then another.  All the way home.

 

-|||-

 

Everytime it happens, he hates himself a little bit more.  He knows he shouldn’t - it’s just a need, and he satisfies it as best he can.  She doesn’t mind.  But there’s always something missing, and he feels so fucking empty, so fucking  _ used up _ after, when he walks home.  Lowtown is always dark, back on the way up through this dismal city, back to Hightown. The street lamps flicker on and off like crazed suns, their yellowish globes burning only dimly.  He’s glad of the darkness.  

 

He passes the homeless shelter, its chipped sign swinging loose.  The neon of the holy sunburst glares from the window, striped behind bars.  At this time of the morning there are so few people on the streets that Fenris almost feels like he could be the only person left in Kirkwall; sometimes he wonders if that might be better.  It’s not shame he feels - he would feel shame if he’d known she wasn’t interested, or if he was playing an emotional game with her.  But it’s neither of those things.  No, it’s not shame, but it is a strange contempt that he has, contempt at the way he wants more - more connection, more quiet moments, affection…  _ Fasta vass, call it what it is, _ he thinks angrily,  _ You want to be loved.  You want someone to love, someone who will love you back.  Someone who will take your hand when it’s quiet, someone who you will put your head on their shoulder and they’ll know, they’ll just know what’s inside you.  Maker, you’re pathetic. _  He clenches his jaw, and pushes his hands deeper into his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the chill.  The pavement slides away under his heels.

 

He rounds the corner and comes to a sudden stop.  So does the tall man, and immediately this strangers hands go up in a gesture of peace.  They regard each other for a moment, then Fenris growls, “Are you getting out of my way, or what?”

“Oh!” the human exclaims, “Uh… sure.  Uh… don’t you remember me? You pushed me over, a couple of weeks ago.”

“Wh-what?” Fenris is caught too much by surprise to hide his shock.  A memory appears before him - a human, sitting on the sidewalk, blowing on his grazed hands.  He frowns.

“Sure,” the human says, “I’d remember that voice anywhere.  Well, at least we seem to be getting better at this.”  He laughs, and tells Fenris, “I’m Anders.”  

 

Fenris regards the human suspiciously for a moment, then nods.  “Fenris.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Fenris.  Perhaps I should thank you,” Anders holds out his hands, palms out toward Fenris, and grins.  “You didn’t push me down this time.”

“I didn’t push you down last time,” Fenris tells him, “You ran into me and fell over.  Because  _ you _ weren’t looking where you were going.”

 

“Oh sure, blame the victim,” Anders tells him airily, and smirks.  Fenris frowns, shifting from foot to foot as he folds his arms over his chest.  The human cocks his head quizzically and then asks, “What are you doing out this early anyway?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Fenris retorts.  “Doing the walk of shame, are you?”

 

He sees Anders swallow, and instantly he regrets being so rude.  But the words are out now, and he… he is a little curious. Once is chance - twice is fate.  The man moves his head sharply to the side, almost as if he is affecting a casualness he doesn’t really feel.  “So what if I am?”  He appears to grit his teeth, then says firmly, “I don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

 

Fenris narrows his eyes.  “That sounds like you’re trying to convince both yourself and me.  Made some bad decisions, did you?”

“No worse than yours,” Anders says, rather grumpily, and folds his arms, looking at his shoes.  They are tatty, Fenris sees, and the coat he wears flaps about a thin frame.   _ Too thin _ , Fenris thinks, and bites his lip.  Finally, Anders sighs.  “Well, it’s been  _ lovely _ talking to you, really, but I honestly think I’ll get better conversation out of my cat.  And I need a cup of coffee like you wouldn’t believe.  So, goodbye, mysterious stranger, or should I say mysterious  _ Fenris _ .  Until next early Sunday morning.”  

 

The human bows slightly, an ironic smile passing over his lips momentarily.  He begins to move, and suddenly, so suddenly Fenris surprises himself, he tells Anders, “Wait.”

There is silence for a moment, during which Anders only stares at him.  The freckles scattered along his cheekbones stand out in the waxy glare of the street lamp, and then it gutters, leaving both of them in the greyish light of dawn.  The human looks up, blinking at the streetlight, and then smiles.  The smile is… beautiful, strangely innocent, and he looks at Fenris to say, “I’ve never been under one when it’s gone out.”

 

“Neither have I.”  Fenris swallows, his throat dry.  “You mentioned… needing a coffee.”

The human pauses, then nods slowly.  “Yes.  I did.”  He arches an eyebrow, and tilts his head.  “Do you..?”

“Well… only if you…”

“I… uh…”

Fenris huffs out a breath.  “This is stupid.  Do you want to get a coffee with me or not?”

The human smiles slightly, and nods.  The nod is shy, sweet, and it sends a strange shiver through Fenris’ body - electricity thrilling along his fingers, his toes, racing up his spine.  “Good. Come on, then.”


End file.
